the artist is offline

digital minimalism, substack is also a social media and co.

Two years ago, I started what’s called a “digital detox.” At first, it was just deleting the Instagram and Twitter apps. Then, sometime later, I deactivated the accounts. I only reactivated them when I wanted to post something. I used to post collages on Instagram once a month, but later I caught myself taking pictures of “aesthetic” things just to include them in my collages or monthly dumps. I didn’t like myself that way—this ingrained sense of performance in my head that wouldn’t go away.

I think most people have that, even if it’s something small—like “the camera eats before me” while out with friends for a nice meal. I mean, how sad is it to not even be able to eat unless it’s aesthetically pleasing to the people in your phone? For most of us who aren’t influencers, it essentially means performing for people who already know us in real life. Which is just pathetic, in my opinion. It’s sad that we feel the urge to perform even for our dearest friends and family—and they do the same. That feeling when you tell a friend something you did, and they say, “I know, I saw it on your Insta.”

I understand that this is now just normal interaction. Sending each other memes and tagging each other is enough to say, “we’re still in contact.” But I didn’t want that for myself anymore. I want more. I want to sit down with a friend and have them tell me all about the last few weeks. I want it to be weeks—not months of being a voyeur in the lives of people you love without ever properly interacting with them. I know everyone’s busy with their own life, but I think it’s sad to have eight hours of screen time and no time for real-life connection.

I was scared of deleting my Insta and Twitter. I deleted Twitter first, and it was so hard for me to do. Which is also... pathetic? Like, I’m a human being with the capability to do anything, and I’m stressed and sad over memes and people in my little screen posting jokes. I found it dystopian to even mourn it—so I didn’t. I decided there was life before this, and there will be life after it. This is something I remind myself every time I take a step forward in my digital minimalism journey.

A few months ago, I deleted Instagram. For years, I was sure I’d never delete it because of the memories I had stored there. I’d had it since I was thirteen, and deleting it felt like throwing away a photo album. After a while, I realized that all the photographs were taken by me, and that I’ve lived through those moments. The pictures don’t prove that I’ve lived—I’ve lived, and then I took a picture. All of it still exists in my mind. Instagram was just an algorithmic vessel I poured my creativity into. By deleting it, nothing changed. There was no downside. I only gained from it. I gained confidence, I gained space in my own brain, I gained control over what I do and how I do it. I’m no longer influenced by an algorithm beyond my comprehension whose only job is to steal my attention.

The first time I deactivated Instagram was also when I started going to the gym and sauna regularly. At first, I found it hard to shower at the gym, but once I got used to it, it was freeing. Seeing myself and other women of different ages naked in a non-sexual way—it was a mirror to reality. This is what the people around me really look like. I know we all know people don’t look like Instagram models, but really seeing it, and having that become your new normal, has changed my self-image immensely. I hope to write a whole essay about this soon.

I feel relieved seeing the real people around me. I feel relieved knowing I consume news in a controlled way. I feel relieved knowing I only receive information I seek out, and not the other way around.

This comes with a lot of loneliness, too. As part of Gen Z, most people I know are active on multiple platforms, and now that I’m not, I feel different for the first time—like there’s a barrier between me and my friends. I feel like they treat me a bit differently, and I don’t know how yet. It’s this small, lingering sense of unfamiliarity. For the first time, I noticed how much people talk through meme references. And not being up to date, I sometimes realize all the references I know feel like they’re from many years ago. That’s probably because there’s a new meme format every month, and keeping up when you’re offline seems impossible. Because of how fast life moves on social media, being off for a few days feels like months, months like years, and years like decades. You feel disconnected in real life because you aren’t connected online. There’s nothing romantic about it.

And then I remembered again: there was a time before this, and there will be a time after this.

I started writing on Substack last year, around November, and was greeted fairly well by the algorithm. But the moment I stopped posting regularly, my texts were punished. They didn’t spread around the platform as quickly, and even people who always read my essays stopped—all because I hadn’t posted in a month. This sent me into a spiral. And then I realized: the moment this becomes a hustle, a chore—that’s the moment art dies and content is born.

I refuse to write every week for Substack if I don’t have the time or just have nothing to say. I refuse to write notes just for the algorithm. So yes, Substack is a social media platform, and I’ve stopped romanticizing it. It’s just another algorithm beyond my comprehension, deciding which texts to push and which to bury. I won’t let that affect my writing pace, my ideas, or anything else in my artistic life. So I deleted the Substack app, too.

I’m writing this from my laptop, and after I post it, I probably won’t open the website for a few days. I’ve dumbed down my phone enough to find joy in purposefully opening my laptop to check out a new YouTube video or an essay. Right now, my goal is to recreate the experience of the early internet: sitting down at the computer, doing what you came to do, and then turning it off until the next day—or maybe even the day after that.